


potentially lovely (perpetually human)

by mutantish



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Red String of Fate, Trains, cross country journey au, ish, teaching assistant harry, theatre student louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutantish/pseuds/mutantish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He figures jumping the bones of the guy who’s only very recently sat down next to him would be a sure way of letting most of the carriage know that he’s not straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	potentially lovely (perpetually human)

**Author's Note:**

> title credit to open by regina spektor. maaaaassive thanks to my reader artemis, my beautiful favey fave, for checking i didn't make too much of any fuck ups. <3 <3 <3
> 
> note: i have never made the journey describe, i'd like to thank wikipedia and national rail for all their help.

When Harry gets on at King’s Cross, he isn’t surprised that somebody slides into the seat next to him within minutes of him sitting down himself. He’s used to making the long journey to Edinburgh from here, and he’s used to not making it alone. Normally he’ll put his headphones in and drift off to sleep, or he’d pull his laptop out and watch that TV series he’s had in his To Watch list for the last three months, but this time, he’s got a class of 24’s English papers to mark. He would do them when he gets to the cottage in Fife, but this time – the idea of doing work over the holiday season is a particularly grim one, despite having volunteered to the teacher he’s shadowing that he’d be totally okay to do it.

He’s midway digging through his bag for a red pen when someone sits down in seat 49B and Harry glances up as they slip their ticket into the holder on the back of the seat 47B.

He’s done the journey from King’s Cross to Edinburgh at least twice already this year, going up to his grandfather’s holiday home on the east coast of Scotland, for no other reason than to get away. When he’d learnt of its existence, he’d laughed for a good three minutes straight – “Scotland? What about Scotland is holiday home worthy, Gran?” – But now, now he appreciates it for all it’s worth. It’s silent and cold and the exact place Harry can go to when he needs to clear his mind. He usually does the journey with someone he doesn’t know by his side and they ignore one another, because it’s a pretty non-descript journey, and there’s not really any point in attempting to befriend someone you’re never gonna see again after four or less hours.

(Harry had once challenged that, and the look he’d been given by the business man he was offering a cookie to still gives him nightmares.)

He glances up.

And then looks straight back down at his lap, silently cursing the gods for allowing this person to sit next to him. _He’s beautiful_ , Harry internally whines, _he’s beautiful and I look like I just dragged myself out of bed. Which is true, but – what the fuck, life, what the actual fuck are you playing at._ He chances another look at the Beautiful Human, but that just confirms it: life hates him and it’s only just gone eight in the morning. He has to refrain from swearing and kicking out against the seat in front of him.

Harry’s always been pretty non-committal and pretty open when it comes to his sexuality, not really feeling any need to out himself unless, a) he’s asked about it directly, or b) he feels the need to tell someone. It’s like, it’s none of their business, so why does it matter if he likes boys or girls or neither or both or any other people? It doesn’t, and Harry figures that if people really want to know (not that it should make the slightest bit of difference, unless they’re like, coming onto him or something – which doesn’t happen that often), they’ll ask.

He figures jumping the bones of the guy who’s only very recently sat down next to him would be a sure way of letting most of the carriage know that he’s very not straight.

He shakes his head and collects himself, reaching into the bottom of his bag and rummaging around. He silently wills that Beautiful Human isn’t looking at him failing epically in his hunt for a pen, isn’t paying attention to him as he finally pulls out the red ball point he needs. The train jolts forward as it pulls off and Harry settles into his seat as well as he can, trying to get comfortable enough so his legs don’t cramp up in the next four and a half hours.

And of course, because as we all already know, the universe hates Harry today – about ten minutes in to the journey when they’ve barely left the city centre itself, there comes a quiet “Pst.”

Harry wants to headbutt the seat in front of him. Poor guy.

He tilts his head to the right, glancing up from behind a stray curl at the Beautiful Human sat next to him. Beautiful Human is looking right at him and when Harry meets Beautiful Human’s eyes, he smiles. And it’s not just any smile, oh no, because the universe could never be that kind. It’s a weary, sleep ridden smile, but it’s real – the corners of his eyes turn up and there’s cute little crinkly lines appearing at the edges, and –

_What the fuck, Harry, get a grip._

“Hi,” Beautiful Human says in a tone higher than Harry was expecting, and in the most gorgeous accent ever.

Harry zones out completely.

Oh _God_ , he is so fucked for a guy who’s been sat next to him for all of thirteen minutes. Harry wants to write thesis on why this guy should be cast to play every single beautiful character in every single movie where there is one. Harry’s always appreciated a pretty face, but this guy – this guy is ethereal, he’s an actual walking angel.

An angel who’s currently staring right back at him, the smile on his face dimming a little when Harry doesn’t respond.

“Oops,” Harry shakes his head, “sorry, hi, I zoned out.” He flushes a dark red in embarrassment, and Beautiful Human laughs. _Oh, fuck._

“Ha, its okay, I was just wondering if you have a pen I could borrow, because mine’s just died.” As if to emphasise his point, Beautiful Human shakes his biro in Harry’s direction with a look on his face that’s almost dejected, as if the pen had outright stopped working and told him to jog on. “Want to finish this essay today preferably.”

“Yeah, same,” Harry shakes the handful of unmarked essays in the air, before setting them aside to rummage in his bag again. He vaguely recalls his Year 9 form teacher nagging on at him to get a pencil case so he wouldn’t lose any of his shit, and in his time of need for a pen now he realises what she meant. He fishes around for a moment longer, shooting Beautiful Human an apologetic glance, before finally finding one buried under what might be a pair of socks. “Aha!” He calls out, and presents the BIC blue biro to Beautiful Human with a flourish.

Beautiful Human laughs again, and takes it from him. “Thanks. Normally, I’d bring my laptop but our professor demanded we hand in at least one hand written over the holidays – he says we’re all going to forget how to write some day.” Kicking his feet up on the foot rest, Beautiful Human leans over the pull-down table, leaning the tip of the pen against the page. Harry is still watching him. Harry continues to watch him for the next two and a half minutes, completely unaware that he looks just a bit creepy.

“Oh – Hi, by the way.” Beautiful Human turns back and extends a hand towards him and Harry managed to tear his gaze away to stare at it for a long moment, before shaking it. Beautiful Human’s hand fits in his, and his hand is soft and warm and Harry is definitely fucked and probably going to get very drunk tonight. Yay! “Thanks for the pen –?”

“Harry. Uh, Harry Styles.”

“Louis Tomlinson, nice to meet you. Thanks for the pen, Harry Styles.” _Louis Tomlinson._

He smiles. Leaning back in his seat, Harry ignores the pleasant thrumming of his heart and the itchy burn in the first joint of his left pinkie finger in favour of settling back and starting to mark up on the 24 essays he has to do.

 

* * *

 

By the time they get to Peterborough, Harry’s spine is protesting and his back is starting to cramp up, and he’s only just over an hour into the journey. Being just shy of six foot and cramped into a tiny space meant for people who are half a foot shorter than he is would never have been good for his posture, not even in theory, so he pauses in marking Charlotte Windburn’s paper on the contrasting themes in Macbeth to roll his shoulders and straighten himself up. He almost whimpers in relief when there’s a resounding pop, something that should not be as satisfying as it actually is.

Only, the person sat next to him flinches and grits his teeth so hard they crunch together.

Harry freezes for a split second then turns his head to see Louis grimacing. He catches his gaze as Louis glances to his left, looking slightly guilty. “Sorry. It’s not you it’s me –I mean,” he laughs, “it’s the clicking thing. In Year 10, my Science teacher told me what it actually is, just really creeps me out.”

“What is it?” Harry tilts his head questioningly, setting his pen down on top his papers. _Bye work, it was nice knowing you, I’ll see you next week._

“It’s the popping of an air pocket in your synovial joint fluid. Like, there’s fluid around all your joints and air bubbles can form there. Crack a joint, pop a bubble. Obviously, he told it to me simpler, more like, “Hey Louis, did you know that you’re bursting a bubble in the fluid that keeps your joints moving? No? Okay!” Let’s just say, it creeped the fuck out of me and I’ve never been able to shake it off.” Louis shakes off a full body shudder, grimacing again. “It’s just one of those things, y’know?”

Harry grins. That’s a challenge and a half, isn’t it? Fuck stranger danger when messing around with easily flinching stranger is so much more fun. He knows it probably makes him an asshole, but he’s mentally shrugging so hard he could take an eye out by the time his mind even supplies that it makes him an asshole.

 He waits a few more minutes, and then slowly reaches out towards the seat beside him. He waits again until he’s sure Louis isn’t paying attention, is concentrating on his pen skating over his page, and rather obnoxiously loudly, clicks his fingers and cracks his knuckles. _Testing a theory_ , he tells himself, ignoring the fact that he probably just likes making this stranger squirm. The only problem is he really doesn’t anticipate Louis dropping the pen into his lap as his hand shoots out across them, clasping over his and trapping his fingers, preventing them from moving again.

"Don’t." Louis’ face is tight, but Harry can see the glint in his eyes from where he’s sat.

“Don’t what?” Trying not to grin, Harry attempts to twist his wrist out of Louis grip and winds up linking their fingers haphazardly, a confused frown on his face. He tries to twist again, but Louis just grips back onto his hand tighter.  “Shouldn’t you know me for longer than half an hour before holding my hand?”

Louis’ strained face is replaced by a smirk as he murmurs, “God, do you fuck on the first date too?”

Harry glances down at their hands and back up at Louis. Now he could just retract his hand from Louis’, mumble an apology for trying to provoke him, forget all about Louis trying to provoke him back and carry on with his work that he needs to finish. But instead, his mouth runs so far away from his brain and rebels in a truly horrendous fashion.

“If that’s what you like,” he quips.

Louis, obviously not expecting him to hit back so fast flushes pink and Harry feels triumphant, if a little embarrassed that he’s being so forward all of a sudden.

“Yeah, well, stop clicking your fingers to make me twitch, and I can tell you about myself while we work,” he grins, retracting his hand from over Harry’s, “or rather, we can pretend we’re going to do work when in reality we can just talk.”

Harry stares at him; his mouth falling into a proper open-mouthed fish-esque gape.

Louis fumbles a little, flusters and gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "I mean, four and a half hours is a long time, we may as well be friends if we’re sitting next to each other for that long. If you want, that is." Harry definitely ignores the little hope in his eyes. They don’t know each other, it’s not hope, and it’s probably the faintest glimmer of sun fading in through the clouds. They don’t know each other.

 _Yet_ , his mind supplies, and Harry wants to kick his internal monologue in the gut.

“I – yeah, sure, okay.” Harry stutters – actually right there and then, stutters – and sends a gentle smile in Louis direction. It’s probably softer than the comment warrants, but as they pull into Grantham, Harry can’t bring himself to care, he really can’t.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, normally when I get this train the person who sits next to me does not wanna know." Harry leans back in his seat, abandoning all hope of finishing marking on this journey and casually rolling up his shirt sleeves as he watches Louis’ face. "Like this one time, I offered this guy a cookie; you swear I’d offered him drugs. The look he gave me could’ve actually killed someone."

He shudders at the memory. “So I stopped trying to befriend people on long journey train rides.”

Louis’ laugh is bright like sunshine, Harry decides, and it sounds like what sunshine would, if it had a sound. It momentarily fills Harry with little tiny bubbles that make him feel like he could float.

"Sounds like you make this journey often," Louis turns in his seat so his legs knock against Harry’s and leans forward a little, also abandoning his work. Harry doesn’t miss the way Louis eyes skate down over the tattoos on his forearms and back up to his face, eyelashes casting a short flicker of a shadow across his cheekbones.

(Teaching assistants don’t get jobs with tattoos, they said. _Fucking watch me_ , Harry said.)

"At least three times a year. I usually visit friends in London on the Friday night, and then up to Edinburgh and Fife on the Saturday. It’s a long journey but it’s worth it, it’s become a bit of a routine now – I do it once in February, once in late July and once in November."

"That sounds awesome – this is my first time coming from London – I’m going to see this production of Grease for uni, Edinburgh’s _Royal_  Lyceum  _Theatre Company are doing like, designed for theatre students. So, here I am.” Louis shrugs. “Early morning and expensive as shit train, but the lecturer promised the course would reimburse us for travel funds.”_

Harry starts thinking about the first time he travelled from London up to Edinburgh on his own – the early morning hadn’t agreed with him but he had a week out, and in his first year of university, with one ninth of a double major in English and Law under his belt, Granddad’s cottage in Fife had never looked more promising – then he registers what Louis says, and cracks a grin of his own, akin to a Cheshire cat.

"Ah, so you’re a theatre student! I should’ve known; I got hammered with a group of theatre students in my first year, they were very expressive while drunk,” he remembers fondly, “and they had the hair too,” waves a hand at Louis’ light brown hair, the whole ‘just woke up and ran my fingers through it but still managing to look perfectly styled’ look that he’s got going on, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“Hey! Do not,” Louis flicks Harry’s thigh, “judge a book by its cover. We theatre students are expressive while sober, let alone drunk.”

“I know – I roomed with three my first year, and lived with two in my second. In our house there were two theatre students, Jamie and Cara – oh, wait, lemme show you.” Harry drags up a photo on his phone to show Louis, pointing them out as he goes along. The picture is from their end of year party from his second year, and they all look relatively wasted, drinks in hand and all clinging onto each other in a bid to stay upright and on two feet.

“There were two studying music, that’s the ginger and the girl standing beside him, Ed and Ellie – they were a thing for a while, then Ellie slept with this guy we knew called Niall, it was so awkward for so long, like Ed even wrote songs about them. But they’re all good now, and Niall’s now one of _my_ closest friends, so, that worked out fine. Anyway, this guy here did art – that’s Zayn, he’s my best friend, and he’s working as a freelance street artist in London now, he does this really great activism and equality paintings, you’ve probably seen some of them around.”

(Harry mid-way through his rambling realises he’s probably spouting shit  at 100mph about people Louis will never see or meet, but Louis looks at the very least a little bit interested, so he keeps going.)

 “There were also two non students – Nick,” he points again, “has an apprenticeship in radio and Caroline has her degree in television and media, she’s going in to the BBC I think. Then there’s me. Everyone said we always threw the best parties, something to do with artistic people being the best when drunk?” Harry laughs.

Louis looks like he’s jealous, an almost pining look on his face.  “That sounds so good, like you really got along with those people. My third year house is pretty boring, like, there’s me and Liam and Stan, who I’ve been friends with since I was like, three years old, but I don’t really – never really clicked with any of the other guys?” Harry hums a noise of understanding. “But we were definitely more mixed than yours. I did theatre, Liam did civil engineering and Stan did Sport Science and a foreign language. I think there was an art major in with us, but I’m pretty sure he moved out. Nathan or something, I only spoke to him once or twice.”

Louis does his dismissive hade wave again, looking a little like he’s batting away a fly that’s buzzing in small circles around his head and Harry raises an eyebrow, “wow, Lou, way to treat a guy, can’t even remember if that’s his name or not.”

Louis shrugs, his cheeks tinted a very faint pink. Harry feels like there’s more than only looking a little bit embarrassed, but it’s not his place to ask, so he pokes him in the shoulder and gives him a grin to show he’s being playful. Louis loosens up and almost immediately returns the smile.

 

* * *

 

For the next twenty minutes they talk and it’s just normal amicable chatter between two guys getting to know each other. Harry discovers that Louis’ birthday is the day before Christmas and he tells him that his own is on the first of February, being pleasantly amused when Louis drags up their horoscopes on an app on his phone (which he doesn’t tease Louis for having in the first place, no, not at all) and they match up pretty well.

He listens as Louis animatedly talks about how a palm reader once told his mother she would have many children, but one son would go into theatre, and this was even before he’d decided where he wanted to go. For the most part of his life, he tells Harry, he wanted to be a footballer, wanted to play for his local team and go up from there, but a broken leg prevented him from joining when he could. A lunch time detention he spent with the Drama teacher in his school opened his eyes, and Louis says he found himself home.

Louis wants to be a stage actor, and Harry can see it now, in the back of his mind’s eye. He looks at Louis, watches his facial expressions shift and change to accommodate his speech, watches the way his hands twist and arc as he speaks – and Harry can see it now. Louis Tomlinson, half a stranger met on a train, half an enigma with a bright smile, on stage.

When the train pulls out of Retford, Louis gets up to use the toilet, slinking out of his seat with a groan and heading down the carriage with a quick “be right back.” Harry takes the opportunity to shove his still unmarked work back into the bag at his feet, not bothering to make sure it doesn’t fold. He knows he should probably take more care, but whatever, y’know? He’s befriended a nice, pretty boy and while he’s normally excellent with deadlines, and despite the fact that this could be his chance to prove to his Dean that he’s eligible for a full QTS by next July, work can shove it for once. Work can shove it right where the sun doesn’t shine, because for the next – Harry checks his phone – three hours and twenty minutes, he’s going to ignore everything else.

(He’ll never tell anyone, but he only decided it three minutes ago, when Louis started tracing indistinguishable patterns into the side of his arm in amongst the spattering of tattoos on his skin. _Fuck it_ , he thought, _fuck it all to hell_ , and gave in to the tiniest bit of resistance that was still left in his mind.)

He pulls out his laptop from inside his bag and boots it up, sliding down in his chair so he can rest his knees up against the pull down table. It’s awkward at first, but once the numbness in his kneecaps starts to kick in, it becomes relatively comfortable. He knows he looks silly, but who cares. Not Harry Styles.

He quickly checks his emails as Louis slides into his seat again, making a show of wiping his wet hands up and down Harry’s folded leg, using it like a paper towel at his disposal. Harry shakes him off and rolls his eyes, smiling to himself as Louis whispers under his breath “train toilets – always so gross. You’d think all the money I’ve just spent on using their services they’d not have such a shitty toilet.”

“Stop complaining, they’re not even that bad,” Harry hisses through his teeth, but there’s laughter behind his words. “You pay for like, the cross country journey in a kind of comfy seat, not for the state of the toil–“

"D’you ever feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Louis cuts in before Harry can finish his sentence; gaze going over Harry’s ducked head, on the window, on the trees passing. "Like, just, there are people in the world than you’re meant to meet. Destined to – and you don’t really have a say in it, but they will come into your life. For however long, whether it’s fleetingly or for years and years."

Harry smiles weakly down at his laptop, a questioning look in his eyes when he shoots another glance in Louis direction, a shrug in the movement of his shoulders. “Sure. But then, it’s a little bit early to be getting that deep, right?”

Harry expects an innuendo to come from that, but gets nothing.

Instead, Louis makes a vague noise of agreement, eyes still on the landscapes flying past their train. It’s moving too fast for him to focus on it for any period of time, so his eyes just skate back and forth again and again, stopping at little intervals. The train screeches to a halt and his eyes narrow minutely before fluttering shut, taking a big gulp of air as he slides down into his seat, playing with the sleeves on his jumper.

Harry frowns.

“Hey,” he whispers, reaching out to settle a hand over one of Louis’. Whether he’s known someone for five minutes or five years, Harry doesn’t like to see someone sad. “Hey, you okay?”

“Mm?” Louis looks up at him, slouched far enough that their heads are on the same level, Harry’s laptop still on his thighs, warmth soaking through into his upper legs. The doors open and Louis’ gaze snaps away from him in an instant as a gust of particularly cold wind rushes into their carriage. The woman sat on the seat opposite them shivers.  “Oh, uh, I’m from Doncaster, and I – I’m not gonna, don’t wanna burden you with this, don’t worry.” Louis shrugs but Harry’s frown only deepens. He wants to help. _I haven’t known you for very long, but I want to help._

“I’ll listen if you want, I don’t mind. Know we haven’t known each other very long, but what harm could it do, huh?” He squeezes Louis’ hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but know I’m here if you just wanna get it out.”

“Uh –“ Louis flounders for a moment, bringing his gaze back up to meet Harry’s. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed pink, but then he smiles. It’s a weak smile, its one step off vulnerable, but when Harry gives him one back, it gets stronger – brighter. Trusting. Harry feels his stomach churn.

“I’m from Doncaster, so y’know. Home. It’s home. But it’s also not – I uh, left my childhood home four years ago, barely only made it to uni because Stan’s parents let me stay at his; and it’s all complicated and weird, but don’t worry. I’m just,” Louis flaps the hand that’s not covered by Harry’s, looking for a word that seems to sit on the tip of his tongue.

“Homesick?” Harry supplies him with.

“Yeah. Homesick.” Louis exhales a heavy breath and tilts on his side and with no mention, no recognition of it, flips his hand so his fingers line up with Harry’s. “You ever been homesick, Harry?”

Harry casts him a private smile, links their fingers and squeezes his hand. “Yeah, all the time.”

 

* * *

 

They fade into a companionable silence, Louis messing around with his phone and occasionally watching over his shoulder as Harry scrolls through some unread emails, checks his Facebook, generally just potters about the internet. There’s no awkward tension between them, no need to fill the silence with conversation. They occasionally bump elbows when the train screeches to a halt and again when it jolts as it pulls away, and by the time they pull out of Adwick, Louis has shifted to his elbows are resting on top of his, Harry’s underneath his against the armrest.

Harry pulls up an old episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix, thankful for the free WiFi and the plug socket, and nudges Louis. When he glances up from his Twitter feed, Harry gives a pointed look at the screen and holds out the right headphone to him. Louis squints at the screen for a second before slipping his phone back into his pocket, shuffling closer to Harry as he puts the earbud in. Harry grins and presses play.

See, now any other person would’ve offered Louis the left headphone, so they wouldn’t risk pulling them out of each other’s ears every time they moved. But Harry knows, just _knows_ , that instead, to combat the short amount of wire between them, they’ll have to shuffle about a little.

And they do, shifting their shoulders and heads until the laptop sits between them, half on Harry’s lap and half on Louis’. Louis head falls to rest on Harry’s shoulder, their arms overlapping as they watch the episode. He feels a little bit triumphant that they’re practically cuddling now, but that wasn’t his only goal. Now, with his left ear occupied by Buffy and co, he’s free to listen to Louis mumble commentary about how he thinks Xander is “a bit of a dick” and that Angel “could probably get it most days”. Harry agrees with everything he says.

The silence falls again as they watch intently and Harry’s mind goes wild with thought.

He tries to concentrate on the screen, tries to ignore the way Louis has two fingers pressed against the pulse point on the inside of his wrist. He tries to pay attention to the words from the show, tries to ignore the way Louis’ foot is brushing his ankle as he gently swings one of his legs. Tries to forget the way Louis is tucked up against him. Tries to _calm the fuck down and get a grip over someone he’s only just met._

Harry tries, and Harry fails.

They only manage to get through one and a half episodes before Harry falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He dreams of red string, tied to his pinkie finger, and dreams that it pulls and pulls and pulls him about until he starts to ravel it up and finally meets the other end of the string.

He dreams of feathered hair that falls into bright blue eyes, spattering of tattoos with placements that match his own. Of a white t-shirt and black jeans, of striped red and grey socks.

He dreams of laughter that sounds like sunshine would.

 

* * *

 

He’s jolted awake by the train screeching as it pulls out of station and someone digging an elbow into his ribs. He wakes up with a twitch and a grunt and as quick as it happens, there comes a rushed apology from his right.

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” Louis says, cradling his elbow in his hand. “You have bony ribs, sorry.”

Harry pats Louis elbow sleepily, then waves it off. He stretches out his arms, then goes to stretch out his legs. He starts suddenly, jumping a little as he becomes wary of the laptop... That’s not on his legs any more. Okay.

Louis must notice him looking, because he _hmm_ s quietly, scratching a line into jaw as he glances over. “Put it in your bag after you fell asleep. You sleep like the dead, by the way. It’s adorable.”

“Nhn,” Harry flushes slightly, “shut up. Where are we?” He mutters quietly, punctuated by a long yawn as he stretches out his back.

“We just pulled out of Prestonpans, which is the funniest place name ever by the way, and –“

Wait, what.

“Wait, what? We crossed the border?” Harry sits up straight, pressing his face up to the window as he watches some countryside fly past them. It’s dark and definitely raining, the clouds above looking menacing. _Scotland looks pretty much the same as England_ , Harry decides, frowning at his reflection in the window.

“Yep, about fifty minutes ago.” Harry turns back to Louis watching him with a smile that looks like it should be reserved for the person he’s destined to be with. It makes Harry’s heart lurch into his mouth.

Harry groans, leaning back into his seat. “Oh, fuck, sorry. Didn’t mean to just pass out on you like that, let alone sleep for this long.”

Louis shakes his head and laughs quietly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. To be fair, you probably needed it, all the travelling you’ve been doing. From Cheshire into London then this journey, you must be exhausted.”

Harry bites his lip, worries it between his teeth a little. “There’s twenty minutes between here and Edinburgh.”

The smile disappears. “Oh.”

Yeah _. Oh._

Harry watches as Louis’ jaw goes tight and he starts to inch back into his seat properly, starts to slide further away, but Harry is having none of that. “Come here, you fool.” Harry reaches for him across the seat and Louis comes willingly. They fold the arm rest up and Harry brings an arm around his shoulders, humming quietly as Louis tucks himself into Harry’s side.

Twenty minutes, _fuck._

“So,” Harry drawls against the top of Louis’ head, “tell me about Grease, Tomlinson.”

 

* * *

 

Harry pulls down his case from the rack above their heads and Louis slings his bag over his shoulder. The service terminates in Edinburgh so they could probably waste a few minutes longer until they have to clear off, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement between them, not to delay the inevitable.

They get off the train together, fingers brushing as they step off onto the cold platform. The high ceiling looms above them, and it reminds Harry of King’s Cross. Big and open and cold and loud and everywhere he doesn’t want to be right now.

“So,” Louis says, turning to face Harry on the platform. He reaches forward as Harry let’s go of the handle to his case, and they link fingers, keeping their hands between them.

“So,” Harry replies. His smile is guarded. “Thanks for the company.”

Louis rolls his eyes and closes the short distance between their heights to press a gentle kiss to Harry’s cheek. “Thank you,” he mumbles against Harry’s skin.

If Harry goes bright red in the face, Louis doesn’t mention it.

They move in to hug, and keep hugging for longer than what people who’ve only known each other four and a half hours should warrant. Louis puts his arms under Harry’s and hooks them around his middle, and the force of the embrace nearly has them toppling over and falling to the ground.

Louis laughs, muffled by Harry’s shoulder and Harry laughs because it’s _funny_. It’s funny because this morning he left with the intention of starting marking on 24 essays, and this morning he had no idea who Louis Tomlinson was. It’s funny because it was never planned to happen and it’s funny because now it has happened, Harry has no idea what he’s going to do with himself.

It’s funny, because this morning Harry would’ve laughed in the face of fate.

Now, he’s pretty sure he’d welcome fate with open arms.

They break apart, and Louis is grinning; it’s infectious. “Here, lemme give you my number, I wanna –“ _I want to stay in contact. I want to know you. I want to be in your life_. “Yeah, give me your phone.” Louis hands his over, and Harry uploads a new contact into his address book, plugging in his number. He takes a quick picture of them before Louis can stop them and sets it as the contact picture. His face is tucked over Louis’ and Louis is trying to wriggle out from under his arms.

It’s the happiest Harry’s ever seen himself in a photograph.

He hands the phone back, and they do the same for his phone. There’s a lot of laughter, and a lot of delaying, and then there’s nothing left but to say goodbye.

“Text me,” Harry says purposefully as he presses a hard kiss to Louis’ temple. Louis nods and they hug one last time before breaking apart.

Harry watches Louis walk away, knowing full well he should’ve turned around before him so he wouldn’t see him walk in the opposite direction. He exhales a long breath, and turns around.

He makes seven steps before he turns back around again, raising his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and placing them between his tongue and teeth. He whistles loudly and a lot of people turn to give him a pissed off look, but who cares. It’s still not Harry Styles. “Hey, Louis!”

Louis stops where he is and turns around in the middle of a throng of people. His eyes scan the crowds of people walking in his direction until they land on Harry. They land on Harry and Harry can see his eyebrows rise.

“Enjoy Grease!”

Louis’ face flashes with confusion and then he laughs and Harry doesn’t have to be close to know what it sounds like. He raises a hand and waves, and Louis returns it with the brightest of smiles. Harry doesn’t forget that smile as he crosses the platform to the other side where his train into Fife is due. His phone buzzes in his pocket as he sits down.

**_Keep smiling, pretty boy, you have a nice smile. xx Ps. I still have your pen !_ **


End file.
